I don’t often write about writing, but when an
interesting detail smacks me between the eyes, I have to write it
down. Last time, it was Head Elsewhere, my regular disconnect with
the real world. This time it’s almost the inverse, achieving the
necessary connection with my unreal world.
I’ve been writing a novel on Wattpad
(Digital Tart), fixing it chapter by
chapter, each instalment getting the eyeball from my partner before
it goes online. So, comments come back, this word isn’t right,
didn’t follow what was happening here, please spellcheck the
******* thing. The usual.
I then go through to see what needs fixing, and what
doesn’t. One particular passage didn’t really work for either of
us, but I patched it up, and all was well. Or not. Yes, it was
better, but no, it wasn’t right, and I really couldn’t see why
not. It was sufficiently wrong that as I cleaned out the goose hut
tonight, my head did a long excursion elsewhere, watching the
offending scene play over and over.
By the time the floor was washed and swept, the geese
fed, and everything settled down for the night, I knew what was wrong
and how to fix it. In fact, if it weren’t for the chickens, I
would be writing those fixes now. However, once the geese
were done, it was time to put the chickens to bed, so my head went to
another elsewhere.
An elsewhere of an elsewhere – cleaning out the
chickens whilst thinking about thinking about the writing whilst
cleaning the geese... you get the picture? I went back over the
goose-cleaning operation, a bit of internal theatre, a personal
flashback re-watching myself cleaning the geese whilst being
head-elsewhere over the troublesome scene. Once I started looking
closely – and the rewind/slo-mo playback of myself in my own head
is superb – I saw the real problem. Not the fix for the
scene, but why I didn’t get it right the first time, or the second.
Until I cleaned out the geese, I really wasn’t there yet.
Welcome to my head. Feel free to look around a while.
Just don’t touch anything.
The scene itself was simple enough – two characters
who aren’t sure of each other, perhaps don’t like each other, and
are about to step into a situation where trust, or the lack of it, is
troublesome. I had the scene, the actions, the dialogue... but it
wasn’t right, because I wasn’t there. I was standing
back, doing a bit of arm waving, you stand there, you go
there, now say this, do that... cut... lovely work people...
Except it wasn’t. Until I did the geese and took the
time to be really there. To stop the action for a moment and
ask the sarky character so what’s your problem anyway?
And then the other one – why is this winding you up?
And then nudge the
mannequins aside and step into their shoes (or armoured boots) and
really be there, take
a look around, see what my characters were seeing, feel the hob-nails
on the concrete.
That sarcasm isn’t
just a moment of snarkiness, it’s a childhood of dodging the
jackboots, of caring for family in a tight corner, protecting an
innocent victim of those jackboots. And from the jackboot side, that
sarcasm is a breath away from the other character being the
ring-leader of a round of mob violence, it’s a warning to look up
to check for incoming bricks, the moment to lock shoulders with the
other jackboots... yada, yada, yada. The details don’t really
matter, only the being there
is important.
The fix, when I get a
chance to write it, is probably a sentence or two. Maybe less if I
can figure out how to be clever about it, but that’s not the point.
Until I was there, it didn’t work, didn’t happen, failed to come
together. Until I’m there, in the middle of everything,
feeling it, being it, no matter how unreal it might be, the writing
doesn’t work.
I’ve never been at
the front of a riot, never been front and centre behind the riot
shields, but if I can’t let my head go elsewhere (perhaps pick up
few useful recollections from the shelves), and be there,
I make a mess of the writing. What I have
done is stood in the front rank as a pikeman in a civil war battle
re-enactment, with the Roundhead army marching down on us from behind
a hill. It’s only a bit of weekend fun. No-one is going to get
hurt beyond the ability of the St John’s Ambulance folks to patch
up. (OK, sometimes
there’s a trip to A&E, or the burns unit, or the urgent need
for an orthopaedic surgeon... but that’s rare.) It’s just a bit
of fun... but the drums, the noise, the marching, the first sight of
their pikes appearing
over the crest of the hill, my there’s a **** of a lot of them...
feel those butterflies anyway.
I can feel that brick
in my hand, now. Just let me get a proper grip on the riot shield...
hey, mate, am I holding this right?
Never done this before, never
want to do this for real,
so just let me be a moment to soak it in, find some words to go with
it.
I’m back now. Until the next chapter. Or tomorrow
evening when the geese need cleaning out again. Shit happens, my
head goes elsewhere, and just maybe, I’m there again.
